The Weight of the Packs

I walked to meet them and found them half standing, half leaning in someone's driveway. It was hot, they were tired, and the quarter-mile or so trek back to my house probably seemed like an eternity. We began to measure distance in turns instead of minutes. "It's two more turns from here, see that road over there? That's the first turn," or "Three more houses up on the left side." I quickly learned that telling them they were "almost there" only exacerbated the current situation.

I'm familiar with certain things that happen when you go on tour. Little things like the sheer joy you can get out of having a need satisfied, like finding hand lotion or something when your skin is cracked and dry. But that doesn't quite compare to something like this. The luxury of our cramped vehicles and the dirty floors we sleep on seemed like they came from another world. These weren't musicians climbing out of a van and complaining about leg cramps after a long day of driving. These were thru-hikers. Who also happened to be musicians.



"You guys want water?"

They were appreciative, but quiet. In awe of things like being able to sit or lean and take off their shoes. We looked at the listing they got in the local alt-weekly, which made a point of the fact that no one seemed to know why they were doing it. I never really cared much about the reason. As far as I'm concerned, they did it to do it.

It was a night off for the troubadours, mostly because despite our many attempts every show option fell through. But I think they needed the break. We took it slow. Food. Drinks. Friends of theirs descended from nearby towns to keep them company or lend a hand by taking home some of those weighty items that seemed unnecessary now.



They set up their tents in our backyard and weighed the packs. Everyone's was too heavy. Books got sent home. Things were shifted and traded.



By morning they seemed less anxious. It had almost become old-hat. A morning routine that consists of applying sunscreen and bugspray. Stretching. Helping each other into their packs. We could hear the Memorial Day parade sirens going by. Fighter jets zooming overhead. Today's goal is simple: get as far away from this point as possible. They are shooting for Belchertown.



I can see the biketrail from my porch. Every few seconds a family walks by with a stroller, a biker passes, dogs follow their owners. They will likely be stopped and asked a lot of questions. This leg of the journey could end up being one of their longest performances. Just not quite in the way they may have expected.



(This first person narrative composed by one Candace Clement who plays in the rock group Bunny's A Swine from Northampton, Massachusetts.)